"Is that your phone?" - "No man, I don't even have it on me," Chris replies. We agree it must be the fog horn they are using in the harbour of Bilbao in order to give the incoming ships some orientation. That fog absorbs any beam sent out by a lighthouse. It's been sitting all over Spain's North coast for two days now. I can literally see the misty droplets creeping up my skin and into my woolen jumper. It's been more of a habbit when we hang our wetsuits out to dry over the wing mirrors. They're soaked.
Only two days ago we hiked up the Picos in the brightest sunshine. We were wearing nothing but shorts and t-shirts with sweat pearls running down our temples. Gasping as we climbed up that vicious crack where we had to pass the dog on from one pair of hands to another. The cries of swallows and jackdaws echoing from the walls above us. But that was October. A very golden one with colourful forests and orange alpine peaks in the dreamy twilight. November puts a grey and misty coat over our shoulders, making us sit together inside the caravan with whisky and that fabulous bottle of red wine, that has always existed.